The San Francisco calamity by earthquake and fire eBook

Another method of finding friends and relatives was
by printing notices on vehicles. On the side
curtains of a buggy being driven to Golden Gate Park
was the following sign: “I am looking for
I. E. Hall.”

That searchers for lost ones might have the least
trouble, all the tents, here known as camps, were
tagged with the names or numbers. For instance,
one tent of bed quilts carried this sign: “No.
40 Bush Street camp.”

Most of the tents were merely named for the family
name of the occupants, the former streets number usually
being given. But these tent tags told a wonderful
story of human nature. A small army tent bore
the name, “Camp Thankful,” the one next
to it was placarded “Camp Glory” and a
few feet farther on an Irishman had posted the sign
“Camp Hell.”

The cooking was all done on a dozen bricks for a stove,
with such utensils as may usually be picked up in
the ordinary residential alley. But in all of
the camps the badge of the eternal feminine was to
be found in the form of small pieces of broken mirrors,
or hand mirrors fastened to trees or tent walls, in
some cases the polished bottom of a tomato can serving
the purposes of the feminine toilet.

One woman, in whose improvised tent screeched a parrot,
sat ministering to the wounds of the other family
pet, a badly singed cat. The number of canaries,
parrots, dogs and cats was one of the amusing features
of the disaster.

Among the interesting and thrilling incidents of the
disaster is that connected with the telegraph service.
For many hours virtually all the news from San Francisco
came over the wires of the Postal Telegraph Company.
The Postal has about fifteen wires running into San
Francisco. They go under the bay in cables from
Oakland, and thence run underground for several blocks
down Market Street to the Postal building. About
forty operators are employed to handle the business,
but evidently there was only about one on duty when
the earthquake began.

What became of him nobody knows. But he seems
to have sent the first word of the disaster.
It came over the Postal wires about nine o’clock,
just when the day’s business had started in the
East. It will long be preserved in the records
of the company. This was the dispatch:

“There was an earthquake hit us at 5.13 this
morning, wrecking several buildings and wrecking our
offices. They are carting dead from the fallen
buildings. Fire all over town. There is no
water and we lost our power. I’m going
to get out of office, as we have had a little shake
every few minutes, and it’s me for the simple
life.”

“R., San Francisco, 5.50 A. M.”

“Mr. R.” evidently got out, for there
was nothing doing for a brief interval after that.
The operator in the East pounded and pounded at his
key, but San Francisco was silent. The Postal
people were wondering if it was all the dream of some
crazy operator or a calamity, when the wire woke up
again. It was the superintendent of the San Francisco
force this time.